


Giftwrap

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M, Rope Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 09:34:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6748486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil receives a decent tribute.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Giftwrap

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Bard, tied up to the mast of his boat. That's the prompt.” prompt on [the Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/14338.html?thread=25997058#t25997058).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

As Thranduil slows his great elk to a stop, dismounting onto the worn dirt before the dock, he chuckles half to himself, “I had to see it to believe it.”

Bard’s face is hard. Most of the elves that stand along the shore—both those that found this bounty and those that accompanied Thranduil down to it—wear carefully neutral expressions, but Feren’s amusement isn’t entirely hidden. Thranduil’s isn’t at all. He strolls down the murky wooden planks, his silver robes trailing elegantly over the grime as easily as if these were the polished floors of his home. He still considers this his realm. He lifts his hem only when climbing onto the unsteady little barge that rocks gently with the lake’s tremours. Bard’s eyes never once leave him.

Thranduil comes to stand right before the mast, where Bard is so tightly bound. The view is exquisite.

It would’ve been kinder, perhaps, for Thranduil to allow his elves to set Bard free immediately, but he wanted the honours for himself. It was worth it for this view. Bard’s chiseled body, undeniably _handsome_ even with his old, tattered clothes, is rigid against the pole. He sits on his knees, his feet pulled back and tied thickly behind him, the heavy rope climbing all about his body. It coils around each thigh, loops over his stomach, bares his chest but binds his shoulders, his arms tied right down to the wrists. Even his neck is held taut to the mast, his skull crushed back against it. It looks as though he can just barely breathe, confined so cruelly, but he makes it worse with his own tension—he pants as though fighting to break the ropes by sheer will. Thranduil watches his chest, shirt ripped open to reveal smooth, sweat-glistening-skin, strain against the coarse binding, and it provides a wealth of new ideas. Thranduil has never used rope for such things, but now he wonders why.

Bard tries to press forward, held too tightly but the effort showing in his clamped jaw and squared shoulders, but Thranduil is still busy observing his prize. Across Bard’s bare chest is written in black ink, in the language of Men: For the king of Mirkwood, courtesy of the Master of Laketown. Such tributes are hardly common, but Laketown does owe Thranduil’s realms much, and this is the best offering they’ve given yet. Granted, Bard is hardly the Master’s to give.

Grinning at the sheer ridiculousness of Men, Thranduil drawls, “What did you do this time to displease your master so?”

Predictably, Bard growls, “He isn’t my master.” Thranduil agrees, but the question is still a fair one, and he can’t resist a little teasing when it comes to such antics.

Smirking wide, and he announces, “Very well. I will accept this gift, though I will send a rider to clarify that it barely touches Laketown’s substantial debt, as attractive a present as you are.” Bard quirks one eyebrow wryly but doesn’t fight the proclamation. “...And I think I shall have the rider return with your three little ones, as it seems our relationship faces far too many difficulties in its current long-distance status.”

Something akin to relief passes through Bard’s eyes. Though he’s never asked to live in the immortal realm of elves, it’s clearly a better environment than Laketown. This incident is only the tip of the trouble. And Bard would live nowhere without his children—Thranduil knows the way to Bard’s heart well. Quietly, and just for the two of them, Thranduil promises, “They will be treated well here.”

Bard will, too. As much as Thranduil advocates discipline of his subjects, he’s yet to strap anyone to a ship and shove them off. Even the rare few who misbehave as much as Bard. 

Steadily, Bard asks, “...You’re taking the whole package, then?”

Thranduil makes a show of eyeing Bard one last time, soaking in every little detail of this gorgeous creature so efficiently tamed. Then he purrs, “Take it? It was already mine.” As Bard dons a sardonic grin, Thranduil lowers, at the same time curling a finger under Bard’s chin to lift it up. He brushes his lips over Bard’s chapped mouth, the kiss chaste but lingering. He can feel Bard’s eagerness beneath him, the desire to get away from that wretched, frozen town into Thranduil’s loving arms. When Thranduil straightens again, Bard’s eyes remain closed, clearly savouring the moment.

Thranduil stretches out his arm, and an attendant slips their sword into his hand. With one swift cut, Thranduil slices through the ropes, straight down Bard’s side. They fall away like water. Bard lets out a deep breath and slumps gratefully in place, basking in the freedom.

Thranduil allows this reprieve, but when it’s finished, when Bard’s eyes flicker open as hotly as ever, Thranduil extends an open palm. Bard takes it and is pulled to his feet, stumbling a little. He grunts, “Stiff legs,” and lets Thranduil help him out of the boat.

Then it’s straight to Thranduil’s steed and Bard’s new life, Feren already riding off to fetch the children.


End file.
